


A Lesson in Wanting

by AStrangeDaze (TerraRising)



Category: Produce 101 (TV), Wanna One (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Gen, M/M, Mild Gore, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Supernatural Elements, Unspecified war
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-06-01 14:29:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15145157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerraRising/pseuds/AStrangeDaze
Summary: To be born once, to die, and be born again, a stranger to his own body. But what life is this, he wonders, hands shaking, throat burning. What life is this that can only be sustains with the sacrifice of another's?





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a prompt-fill for a request submitted to the S.O.S. cc which then grew out of my control. To anon, apologize that this may veer away from the original request, but I hope you enjoy it regardless!
> 
> A huge thank you to the lovely Abigail (yoonminkookfangirl) who beta'd this chapter for me <3

The ground shakes beneath his knees; above them the air itself trembles under the force explosions. Yet this is no catastrophe he can run from, no hurricane ripping them up like toy soldiers, but the unrelenting blast of artillery shells that condemn them as they are ordered to march, still only toy soldiers to the men who sit comfortably at the rear enjoying their cigars and fine spirits. 

 

Thousands of lives snuffed out on the whims of men, and still this urging to fight the good fight and die honourably, as if the dead have any use for honour at all. All he can hear are the screams of dying men: comrades and enemies alike gasp for their last breaths, beg for salvation. A young corporal close to him is crying, sobbing for his mother, but no one hears his prayers. 

 

How could anyone when the Heavens themselves blazed with hellfire?

 

Euigeon wishes he has mercy to spare but he's too busy ducking in the trenches, the stench of blood and unwashed bodies so strong it almost masks the scent of gunpowder no matter where he turns. He shoots at the enemy tirelessly because his mind is blank, body running on instinct and muscle memory, and the drive to survive: aim, fire, duck, and reload. Move to the next position and hope the ground his feet sinks into is mud and not the flesh of a rotting corpse, he has no other course of action but to keep shooting and dread the moment his rifle jams.

 

At some point a blazing pain engulfs his thigh and he stumbles; a second searing pain tears through his shoulder and he falls on the cold, muddy ground. Someone to his right begs for water; the sky above him burns vermillion, brilliant and bright, a shade for every circle of hell, and he wonders how he got here so far from home even as he struggles to try to staunch the bleeding.

 

He's cold, so cold and tired, and Euigeon closes his eyes: not expecting to open them again, only to wake long after night has fallen.

 

If he strains his ears he can hear movement, and he wonders if it was a miracle after all: if the platoons were searching the trenches for survivors, if there was a medic on the way, if he might make it home to see his mother yet. He's too cold to even shiver now; he can feel his heartbeat slowing as death entices him and pulls him into its undertow.

 

"Oh, a live one," a curious voice sounds above him, as impartial as the reaper itself. 

 

For all his strength, Euigeon can't pry his eyes open to see whose cold fingers are brushing his matted hair back from his face, nails catching on his skin.

 

"Please," he croaks through a painfully dry throat.

 

"What is it?" the voice approaches as the other crouches down, fingers skirting across his forehead.

 

"Please," Euigeon repeats, though he isn't sure what he's begging for anymore.

 

For help?

 

For a swift death?

 

For just one more earthly comfort before he slips into the embrace of the dead?

 

"Death isn't far from you now, young one," the voice warns, and Euigeon feels inexplicably calm to be reminded of this fact rather than fed honeyed lies of how he was going to be fine.

 

“Well…..I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. Would you like to live?”

 

To live?

 

But he couldn’t, death has come calling, has nearly drained the life from him already with its insidious cold touch. A trap then? Or a wistful, empty platitude? 

 

And yet he remembers then, laying there in the mud and the cold, on this god forsaken plain torn asunder by the greed of men, littered with the bodies of comrades and enemies alike, each too young to be snatched from the world so cruelly. 

 

He remembers how the sun might colour the wheat fields outside his home a hue richer than the purest gold. He remembers the scent of the bakery down the lane, remembers the smiles of each and every denizen of his town, the women and the children, the old and the infirm, the real reasons he was on this thankless battlefield because only fools died for glory and adventure.

 

Most of all he remembers his mother, her warm smiles, the comforting way she would fold him into her arms no matter how grown he was. Remembers the way the softness in her eyes has warped into terror when she saw him in his uniform, the tremour in her hands as she held him that last time, beseeching him to come home. 

 

_ Come home. Live and come home. _

 

_ He had to live. _

 

“Y-yes,” the word barely makes it out of his throat before there’s a sharp burning in the side of his neck and he would scream if he had the breath left to.

 

There’s a dark chuckle near his ear before the world fades away again as the burning consumes him alive.

 

“I hope you don’t regret that choice, boy.” 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Euigeon wakes to the sensation of his body ablaze and the world is a haze of technicolour shifting beneath him as the fabric of reality rends apart at the seams, and the cold muck he rests on seems to open its maws to swallow him whole.

 

He spasms and flails without control of any of his limbs, combusting and freezing simultaneously. He cannot inhale without feeling pained tremors wracking through his limbs, fire alighting each of his veins coupling with agony blazing through arteries until it even sears into every inch of his skin. Every cell in his body bursts into existence and then lysed just as quickly, rearranging themselves on the whims of some sadistic deity as he gasps for air that refuses to fill his lungs.

 

And throughout it all there is a hunger that threatens to consume him, that violently ignites and stimulates his throat, a yearning that drives him to insanity.

 

He doesn’t remember how he climbed out of the trenches. 

 

He doesn’t remember how he stumbled through the battlefield, across no-man’s land, planted his feet carelessly into corpses stinking of carrion and coming away crawling with maggots.

 

He doesn’t remember anything but the hunger, the thirst, the craving for something warm, for something to quench the fires that flickered in his sternum all the way down to the base of his stomach.

 

What was he hungry for?

 

What did he thirst for?

 

He doesn’t know, doesn’t know, but it draws him in like moth to a flame, something that hums under the skin of his enemies, alluring like a siren’s song. 

 

He wants it, craves it, wants to taste it, feel it flowing down his throat, to breathe it in and bathe in it.

 

Barbed-wire pulls at his clothing but cannot seem to find purchase on his skin and he rips through it, drawn forward and then to the right. Arms outstretched, dowsing rods made of flesh and bone, towards a beating that gets louder and louder with every step that he takes. 

 

He’s close now, close and then closer to that delectable scent not even sweat and grime can hide. He sees his prey before they could ever hope to see him, the dark is his ally, muting their senses and enhancing his. He can hear a pulse jackrabbiting as he scales the watchtower effortlessly, uncaring of the noise his approach must make that has the scent of fear saturating the air. 

 

He rips the door open as if reinforced steel was nothing more than the cover of a flimsy tin can and reaches for his prize even as the man screams, eyes white with terror as they fumble to sound off the alarm but then Euigeon is on them, jaw wide open even before he pounces upon his first victim, starved and wild, fangs ripping through grimy skin like it was nothing to get to the life that flowed beneath the surface. 

 

Maybe his victim screamed from the pain, maybe they fought, but Euigeon doesn’t know, too focused on draining the life force that bubbled up beneath his tongue and drained so sweetly into his mouth, painting his jaw a vivid crimson, macabre art.

 

Ah, yes, the taste of life, that was what he had hungered so painfully for. And yet still he wants more, more more _more_.

 

He drops the body and heads towards the next beating heart he can hear, yearns to feel that pulse fluttering beneath his lips again. He was still so _hungry_ and well, Euigeon licks his lips, mind lost to a primal haze, there were still so many heartbeats calling out to him. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Euigeon exists in nothing but a haze of hunger and thirst, his world narrows down to the need to feed, to feast, to hide from the scorching heat of the sun no matter how much he hates the cold of the night. 

 

There are moments, rare moments where the haze of bloodlust fades into the background just long enough for the horror and guilt to set in. Those are the days when Euigeon drinks more than his fill, when he’s torn out enough throats to drown out those lingering thoughts with blood, when he’s full enough to ignore the pull and thirst for more. 

 

Those precious moments when his mind clears leave him sobbing from the guilt of knowing he’s taken so many lives senselessly, though an ugly little voice in the back of his head whispers whether this is really any different from being a soldier?

 

Today is one of those rare days when the burning in his throat finally subsides for a few moments, and he heaves at the cloying metallic taste coating his tongue. He wants to throw it all up but his body refuses, holding down the nourishment it needs stubbornly even as he gags, tears stinging his eyes. For a moment, Euigeon wonders how long he has this time, how long he’ll be able to hang on to his own mind before he descends into another feeding frenzy.

 

For a moment, he regrets ever begging to live, wonders if it wouldn’t be better if he didn’t have these rare bouts of rational thinking and a conscience screaming louder than anything in his carnal mind. 

 

“My, my,” a soft voice breaks the silence and Euigeon’s head snaps up with inhuman speed to stare at the figure cloaked in shadows in the doorway, “So it was a newborne after all.”

 

“Who are you?” Euigeon croaks even as he digs his nails into the palms of his hands, willing himself not to lose control and kill the first person he’s spoken to in ages.

 

“Tell me, where is your sire, childe?” the man continues as if he hasn’t heard Euigeon’s question at all.

 

“My what?” he asks as the man steps closer.

 

Even with his enhanced senses, Euigeon can barely see a flick of an elegant wrist in the dark before a fire blazes to life above the stranger’s palm. A twist with those fingers separates the fire into smaller orbs and sends them hovering in the air around them, lighting up the room of the abandoned house Euigeon had been squatting in.

 

He flinches at the first sign of light, expecting that to ignite him too, hissing as his eyes slowly adjust to the assault. Blinking rapidly, Euigeon waits for the little flares in his vision to settle, inhaling sharply when he takes stock of the man standing in front of him, studying him with a sardonic smile and an raised eyebrow. 

 

He’s dressed elegantly in one of those western suits, the fine make and tailoring of the material evident even here in this low lighting, the likes of which Euigeon had only ever dreamed of returning home in to show his mother evidence of her son’s success. 

 

Euigeon shifts and winces at the friction of ruined rags across his skin, as the blood caked into the material glued the fabric to him long ago. Juxtaposing his untamed appearance to this fancifully clothed man, Euigeon might have been embarrassed if he wasn’t still drowning in self-loathe. He expects the man to flinch away, to recoil in horror and run now that he sees exactly what Euigeon looks like, sees what he is, a monster disguised in a costume of human skin and remnants of his sins. 

 

Except the man doesn’t, he doesn’t move away, in fact he comes closer still, inspecting every inch of Euigeon with eyes the colour of burnt amber, of the finest red wine. Something in his manner has Euigeon’s hackles rising even as some unknown instinct screams for him to stay still, to bare his throat in submission to a greater predator and hope to live another day. 

 

“Where is your sire, childe,” the man asks again, grasping Euigeon’s jaw in a deceptively gentle hold, tilting his head to the side as he inspects his throat and Euigeon can’t help but lean into the touch, the first real contact he’s had with someone for ages that hasn’t ended up with their blood splattered all over his front. 

 

“I,” he licks his lips nervously as the man’s attention zeros in on him mercilessly, “I don’t know what that is.”

 

The man’s gaze turns sharp and Euigeon can’t stop himself this time, a whine builds at the back of his trachea and he exposes his throat to the man in front of him. Those eyes track his movement as if they mean something more to him than Euigeon understands and he shakes his head, “No, I don’t suppose you would.”

 

Stepping back, he snaps his fingers and the orbs of fire consolidate into one again, hovering just in front of the man as he turns to leave the room. Euigeon stands frozen, a sense of loss filling him at the thought of resuming his lone nightmare until the man turns back to look at him, head tilting towards the exit as he offers a slim hand.

 

“Well? Are you coming? Or would you rather stay here, childe?”

 

Euigeon stumbles forward before he knows what he’s done, grasping unto the proffered hand like it was a lifeline, even though he should be more wary of strangers offering him things he doesn’t understand. But he can’t, he doesn’t want to be alone anymore, he doesn’t want to fall back into that mindless abyss and resurface later after god knows how long, covered in even more blood that stains more than his clothes and seeps into his soul. Against all chances it seems as if this man knows what has happened to him and was offering him help. How could Euigeon do anything but hang on to that hand for dear life?

 

He’s pulled out of the door and into the moonlight, breathing in fresh air for what seems like the first time in forever. The stranger leads Euigeon down the deserted path, flashing him a kinder smile than Euigeon deserves when he’s literally caked in the blood of a hundred dead men and women. 

 

“Come now, let’s get you cleaned up.”

 

 

And like a moth drawn to flame, Euigeon goes. 


	2. II

 

It’s a real struggle for Euigeon to leave the bath once he’s been shown to the washroom, a steaming tub of water already waiting for him with a bar of lightly scented soap and a wash cloth. Scented soap, Euigeon stares at it, turning the bar over in his hands; a luxury he had never known and had never expected to encounter after being conscripted into the army. He scrubs himself raw and then stumbles out of the tub reluctantly, trying to avoid stepping on the metallic flakes that litter the floor, a byproduct of him shedding his ruined uniform.

 

To his surprise, the tub drains and refills itself in seconds and Euigeon is more than happy to climb back in and soak in clean water, rubbing the bar of soap over his skin again and marvelling at how rich the lather is. When he’s finally certain he can’t get any cleaner, he steps out of the tub again and reaches for one of the towels his host had left for him on the counter tops and which he hadn’t dared to touch earlier for fear of getting blood all over the pristine material.

 

It feels like heaven against his skin, soft and warm in a way he had almost forgotten could exist, and Euigeon can’t help but stare again at the extravagant surrounding him.

 

The stranger had led him to one of those fancy contraptions, those automobiles Euigeon watched pass before, gleaming and polished in parades and then driven them back to a manor. The house was beautifully outfitted, a tasteful display of wealth rather than oversized marble statues or ornaments dripping with gold. But it’s still ingrained into everything here, from the spotless silver faucets to the quality of the borrowed clothing Euigeon slips on now before gingerly opening the door and wandering down the halls towards where he thinks he hears the man.

 

“You’re done, good,” the stranger gestures at him to come closer and Euigeon does, padding acrossthe hardwood floors, silent as a grave, “Sit, drink this.”

 

“What is it,” Euigeon asks even as he accepts the cup, peering inside to see blood and almost balks, “Wha-”

 

“Drink,” the man says pushing the cup firmly towards Euigeon with an stern look even as Euigeon tries to fight down the revulsion that wars with his sudden thirst, “You’ll need it if we’re going to have this conversation.”

 

He drinks.

 

It tastes like blood and yet different than expected. Warm and metallic, yes, but with an odd heady sweetness to it that swells over his tongue and leaves him yearning for more. But most importantly, three sips in and Euigeon can feel it settling in his stomach easily, can feel the hunger abating and he stares at the cup and then at the stranger in wonder.

 

“What did you give me?”

 

“What your sire should have provided you with from the beginning,” is the non answer he gets and he squirms in his seat, wanting to ask more but afraid of pushing and over staying his welcome, “Do you remember what happened before your change?”

 

“A…a bit, some pieces mostly. I remember I was shot, I was dying. I asked someone to help me and….and,” he frowns, frustrated that he can’t recall the specifics, startling when the stranger lays a soothing hand on his forearm.

 

“It’s alright, don’t force yourself. It’s common, the not remembering, sometimes it’s just a bit too traumatic, a bit too much for the brain to process and retain. Now, do you know what’s happened to you? What you are now?”

 

The stranger looks expectant, like he knows Euigeon’s already long since drawn his own conclusions and ought to know, _has to know_ he’s not human any longer.

 

“I’m a monster,” he confesses, hysterical laughter bubbling up, “I killed people.”

 

“You are not a monster,” the other man states, says it so simply and yet just hearing those words soothed something in Euigeon, “And if you had been handled properly, that feeding frenzy of your’s would never have happened.”

 

“I-I,” Euigeon licked his lips nervously, taking another sip of the blood (oh god, he really did drink blood now), “What do I do now? How can- how can I stop going back to….to that.”

 

He shudders, remembering that all-encompassing haze, the mind-consuming need to just feed and nothing else, that stole all semblance of rationality from him. The stranger studies him carefully, hand swiftly withdrawn now that he’s deemed Euigeon no longer needs the comfort it provides regardless of how much Euigeon wants it anyways, wants to know someone can still stand to touch him even with all the lives he’s stolen with those very hands.

 

“You need someone to anchor you,” the stranger says after a moment of silence, “Normally it would be your sire, the one who made you this way, or another they had turned may step in if the sire was unable to. But your case……I doubt we’ll find your sire anytime soon.”

 

“Then who…” Euigeon trails off, turning lost and hopeful eyes at the stranger.

 

The stranger shakes his head lightly. “I don’t sire newbornes for a reason, not the right……temperament,” his lips quirk up in a half smile as if quietly laughing at himself.

 

“Please? I-”

 

What can he say? That he wants even the slightest measure of stability now? That he’s seconds away from breaking down, just barely holding it together, craving for that sure and certain hand on his arm once again? He has nothing to offer, nothing to barter with, was already here only on the other’s goodwill.

 

“I’ll take you to the council in the morning, they’ll match you up with someone suitable,” the man stands and stretches leisurely, limbs all long graceful lines, “Finish your drink, it’ll tide you over for the night. You can rest in any of the guest rooms.”

 

He lays a hand briefly on Euigeon’s shoulder before leaving him alone to drown in his own thoughts, without even a name.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“That’s the third rejected bond.”

 

The words are teasing more than mocking and Seongwoo sighs watching as that newborne he had been tasked to retrieve months ago returns to the Sanctum, head drooping with defeat as his latest mentor relinquishes him back into the care of the Council.

 

“And your point is, Minhyun?”

 

Seongwoo turned with a fake yawn worthy of the players, his habit of acting human no longer just a passing fancy but a fun game for him to indulge in when he was bored. Minhyun snorts in an manner Seongwoo always insists is unprincely and gestures agains to the dejected childe below on the first floor.

 

“Come now, must you play the part of the fool again? Should I spell it out for you?”

 

“Some things take time,” Seongwoo hums noncommittally though his eyes track Euigeon’s progress across the halls towards the temporary accommodations with an unerring focus.

 

“He’s had a month each with the mentors he was deemed compatible with; he’s going to ruin himself for any bond at the rate he’s going,” Minhyun warns, “You know that better than anyone.”

 

“Then you should also know why it can’t be me,” Seongwoo retorts.

 

“Or rather why you would be the best choice,” his friend counters, “Seong-ah, he’s already latched onto you something fierce, enough that he’s subconsciously rejecting everyone else regardless of compatibility. Must you really stand by and wait until he loses all hope and burns himself out entirely before making your decision?”

 

“I’m ill-suited to being a mentor,” Seongwoo breathes out, the words he’s parroted so often feels like an unshakable truth on his lips, “I’ll ruin him.”

 

“Your idiot of a sire was the one who nearly ruined _you_ ,” Minhyun growls, lips twisted in distaste, “You’re not ill-suited in the least, were he still alive I would have him pay for filling your mind with such blatant lies.”

 

“Let the past be, my friend,” Seongwoo was quick to lay a soothing hand on top of Minhyun’s clenched fists.

 

“Then you should take your own advice, should you not?” Minhyun challenges, the brilliant amber of his eyes fading once again to a rich merlot, “Prove to yourself once and for all that his words have no hold over you. You know so _much_ , Seong-ah, we suffer every day his poison stops you from passing on that knowledge.”

 

“I would not have that childe used as an experiment doomed to fail, and Prince or not, should you force my hand…” he leaves the statement hanging and Minhyun nods, accepting however grudgingly.

 

“Think on it again at least my friend, I hate to see you suffer and limited so. And the childe, he suffers as well.”

 

“I know,” Seongwoo sighs, eyes drawn back once again to that shut door Euigeon had disappeared behind, “I know.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s his fifth time being re-assigned to a mentor and Euigeon has already given up before he’s met the elder.

 

Months ago when he was first brought into the Sanctum, he was assured that they would find the right match for him. Sometimes it takes a trial or two, but they’d find a mentor that would take care of him in place of his sire, the clerk had reassured him.

 

It’s his fifth trial now and Euigeon is certain he’s got to hold some type of record for failed matches, the clerks all know him by name now and Anya flashes him a sympathetic smile as she ushers him into the waiting hall.

 

“Just through here, well,” she gives a light laugh as if to dispel the doom and gloom hanging over his head, “You know the drill. Cheer up, Euigeon, this one will be the one for you.”

 

“You said that about that last one, Miss Anya,” he complains even as she jostles his shoulder with her’s good-naturedly.

 

“Well, I have a great feeling about this one, come on, chin up. He’s just through that door.”

 

Heart heavy and hope just about left at his feet, Euigeon takes a deep breath (or twenty) and pushes the door open once Aniya has left him with a final pat on the shoulder.

 

There’s a man sitting with his back facing Euigeon sipping leisurely from a teacup made of bone china. It’s one of the smaller meeting rooms he’s seen so far, intimate almost, and he edges around the table nervously to pull out a chair as smoothly as he can to avoid making an unsightly scene. It’s only after he sits that he realizes he hadn’t been invited to sit and curses himself, afraid of looking up to see unimpressed eyes; his third mentor had been a stickler for manners and propriety, having been raised in a noble household some hundreds of years ago, and would fix Euigeon with this _look_ that he had absolutely hated.

 

There is no reprimand though, only the sound of a cup being filled before a steaming cup of tea is pushed towards him, “Tea?”

 

Euigeon’s head whips up at the sound of that voice, drawing a breath he no longer needs as he stares at the face of someone he had never forgotten. Fine almost aristocratic features set in a blemish-free face, mischievous eyes eons older than his physical age, thin lips quirked into an amused smile at Euigeon’s gaping, and those three tiny moles beneath his eye as if touched by the fates themselves.

 

“You,” he whispers, making an aborted motion out to touch, to grab and prove that the other was real and not a figment of his hopeful imagination.

 

“Me,” the other man confirms, nudging the cup towards him again not unlike how he had in their initial meeting, “tea?”

 

“I, um, yes,” Euigeon fumbles to lift the cup, pausing minutely when he realizes it was _actually_ tea and not just a polite way for the other man to offer him blood, “Wait-, I can’t, I mean, we, but- this is actually tea?”

 

The stranger from five month prior lifts an eyebrow, “Yes, actually tea. Would you prefer something else?”

 

“No, no! I just, I thought we couldn’t…drink anything but blood…?” he trails off uncertainly.

 

“Who on earth told you such a lie?” the man’s brows furrow, taking a sip from his own cup, “Ah, no matter, I’ll find that out later. For your information, yes you can still drink and eat normal food, it just has little to no nutritional value for us and you may find the taste and intensity changed with your enhanced senses, though many continue to consume them for pleasure. This isn’t regular tea however, it’s Witch’s Brew, and I’m certain you’ll find it much more pleasing to the palette.”

 

“Witch’s Brew?” Euigeon takes a tentative sip and then gulps it down eagerly at a speed that would have burnt a human’s tongue at the delightful taste of honey and sunshine, such a welcomed change from the metallic tang of blood.

 

The man chuckles and lifts the pot to refill the drained cup obligingly, “Yes, there are many flavours but the type of beverage has been rather unimaginatively dubbed Witch’s Brew. Like the name suggests, it’s made from spelled ingredients and herbs gathered at specific times, and blended together by a witch. This here has been tailored to my own tastes by a friend and I’m sure you’ll find something to suit your’s in the years to come.”

 

Euigeon drinks in the information he’s being given just as eagerly as his tea even as he tries to wrap his head around the fact that witches were real, which was ridiculous because he was a vampire now, of course witches could exist.

 

None of his mentors before had been forthcoming with interesting information, seeing it more important to ply him with texts about history or long lectures about rules and etiquette. The ones who had been hands-on had been a bit _too_ hands on and, cradling the hot china between his hands carefully, Euigeon thought he much preferred how this mentorship was going already in comparison to the others. But still, he has to ask, has to be sure.

 

“Are you my…?”

 

The man smiles, refilling Euigeon’s cup for the third time, wrist turned elegantly, mesmerizing with every movement. “Indeed. You may address me as Seongwoo and I will be your mentor should this partnership work out.

 

 

 

"A pleasure to officially meet you, Euigeon.”

 

 


End file.
